Such a Lonely Word
by S. Faith
Summary: Sometimes honesty backfires. Sometimes, though... it doesn't. Spoilers through 3x18, Cocktails. Jim, Pam, Karen. The Office US. Five prompt improv fic written in just under 2 hours. Thanks to Mr. William Joel for the title.


**Such a Lonely Word**

By S. Faith, © 2007

Characters: Jim, Pam, Karen   
Word Count: 1,494  
Rating: T / PG-13 (language)   
Spoilers: Through "Cocktails"  
Summary: Sometimes honesty backfires. Sometimes, though... it doesn't.  
Notes: Thought / opinions that I had begun to form re: last night's episode were shaped into a more cohesive form by the very excellent you-know-who-you-are. Thank you:)

This is improv!Fic. Five elements provided by fireworkfiasco at end of story, written in just under 2 hours.

* * *

She's fine when she strides out of Poor Richard's, head held high. Her chin is raised defiantly as she pummels the door out of her way in the wake of the mercurial mood change and veritable explosion that precipitated the breakup—_second_ breakup—between herself and her erstwhile boyfriend. She starts up her little car's engine and calmly, coolly, soberly, heads back to her apartment. She should be more surprised at the reaction he had, but she isn't. She wonders if she didn't subconsciously do it—tell him about Casino Night—just to see how he might react. To see if he really had changed. 

No, the surprise is that she was surprised at all. The beer eased out his real feelings: he might have thought he loved her, but it had become patently clear that what he really wanted was to reclaim someone who really didn't exist anymore.

She is momentarily so lost in thought she almost turns right (towards the place they once shared) instead of left (to her own apartment). Habits die hard.

She's the picture of tranquility when she pulls her car into her allotted parking spot, switches off the ignition, and turns off the lights. She steps out of the car with her apartment key poised between her fingers, her hand as steady as a surgeon's as she slips the key into the lock.

She swings the door open, kicks it shut behind her and reaches for the wall.

She's fine, she really is. Honesty was what she wanted, and honesty was what she got, for better or for—

It isn't until she jams her finger into the wall reaching for the light switch, breaking the corner off of her fancy new pink-polished nails, that she blinks as if emerging from a dream.

Then she has to blink again for the flood that suddenly fills her eyes.

Her purse drops to the floor, followed shortly by her coat, and then by Pam herself. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes in an attempt to staunch the tears, her body rocking with sobs. Honesty? She laughed at herself through her tears. What a fraud. She wouldn't know honesty if it jumped up and threw a shot glass at her. If she wanted to be honest she would have swallowed her fear, her nervousness, and admitted her own feelings to Jim.

It was a small step to admission, to ownership, saying _I kissed Jim_ rather than _Jim kissed me_, but she knew it wasn't enough, and it was much too late. He had Karen, he was happy, and he was clearly totally over the feelings he'd expressed that long ago May night.

Her sobs overtake her afresh.

What had she done? More to the point: what _hadn't_ she done? Enough; she hadn't done enough, taken the chances when they mattered, been honest when it counted. And look where it had gotten her. If she had it to do over again… but it was silly to think of such things. There were plenty of second chances on TV and in books, but in reality they were few and far between.

………

"You're awfully quiet tonight."

Karen's voice cuts through the repetitive sound of tires passing over seams in the highway.

"Sorry. I'm just really focused on getting back to Scranton," Jim says, his voice flat and barely audible.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Karen's dark red lips split with a smile. "Jim. You're not actually mad about tonight, are you?"

Honestly, he is kind of pissed off, but he didn't want to have this conversation when there was still a little over an hour left to their trip. He envisioned any discussion of her—what was it exactly: a prank? A practical joke?—casually telling him, in a succession of little white lies that seemed plausible enough, that she'd dated nearly every young handsome man there—in the company?—went way beyond the harmless office hoax on Dwight, like staplers in jello or forged discount coupons for stamps at the post office. No, Karen's actions were not only clearly calculated, but were mean-spirited, almost as if to provoke an emotional response, or maybe even prove a point: _this is what it feels like for me to be around Pam Beesly every single hour of every working day._

Frustrated, he blows air through his teeth, then wishes he hadn't.

"You _are_ mad." Her smile has disappeared.

He glances to the side for a moment. "Yeah, Karen. I guess I am a little pissed off. I didn't expect to take you to a corporate cocktail party and have you suddenly confess to every fling you'd ever had or thought about having, or every fantasy anyone's ever had about you. It wasn't funny. It isn't funny."

She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it and turns her face to look out the window at the distant lights of the houses off the side of the highway. She says something quietly as if speaking to her reflection in the rear view mirror.

"What?"

"_Alleged_ flings," Karen says, her voice a little louder, turning back to face him. "God, Jim, did you really think I'd done all those men?"

"What I thought was that maybe I was just the flavor of the month."

It's honest, possibly the most honest he's ever been with her (aside from admitting to still having feelings for Pam), and as soon as he says it, he regrets it. He turns again and her mouth is slack. After a moment she regains her composure, such as it is, and mutters through clenched teeth, her eyes glossing over, "Fuck you, Jim Halpert."

He turns his eyes back to the road. Honesty is sometimes overrated. He should apologize, but he just doesn't want to do this anymore. He's tired and just wants to get home to Scranton.

He reaches for the volume on the radio, wanting anything but silence right now.

………

A ringing wakes her. It's distant, like through miles of ocean, and she lifts her head from the carpet. _Sad and pathetic_, she thinks, _to cry myself to sleep on the floor_. It's her cell phone that's ringing, and she thinks about not answering it, because in all likelihood it's Roy calling to gush apologies at her, which always happens when he sobers up and realizes he's been a complete jerk. He'd gone above and beyond jerk tonight straight onward to asshole and she really, _really_ didn't want to talk to him.

It stops ringing, then a moment later, as she gets to her feet and picks up her coat and purse, it starts again.

And suddenly it occurs to her that she hasn't heard this ringtone in quite some time. Frantically she reaches for her phone, verifying her suspicions on the display, takes a deep breath, pushes Talk.

"Jim?"

"Sorry. I know it's late. Didn't wake you up, did I?"

"No, of course not," she lies, wiping her still-damp, carpet-textured cheek and trying not to sound too eager. "What's going on?" she asks, feeling like a rambling dork.

"I had a really crappy night and wanted to hear a friendly voice."

She can't help it; she bursts out with a little laugh. _He's_ had a crappy night?

"Pam?" he asks. She imagines his brow furrowing, his hair falling down into his eyes.

"Sorry. Cocktail party that bad?"

She hears an ironic chuckle, a little sigh. "Went to the party with a girlfriend, came home without one."

"Oh?" she asks, her voice sounding high and strained even to her own ears. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry," she says, and she thinks she might be lying again. The phrase _second chances_ echoes in her head, and though it might be too much too soon, she clears her throat to speak. _This is it_, she thinks; _Fancy New Beesly about to go all in_: "Hey. I had a pretty craptastic night myself. Want to go get some coffee at Perkins?"

He's quiet for so long she wonders if the call's dropped. "Right now?"

She's nodding, then remembers he can't actually see her, so says, "Yes." Her voice cracks on the word.

"Um, yeah, sure. Sure." After a moment he adds hesitantly, "What about Roy?"

"I left him at Poor Richard's."

His light laugh is as false as they come. "Well. He'll get a ride home from someone else."

She lets his misinterpretation of her words slide for the time being, because she realizes that if she's going to go for all-in honesty, she should at least have the reward of seeing the look on his face. "He usually does."

"Yeah," he agrees. "So. Ravine Street in fifteen?"

She grins. "Be there or be square."

He laughs, and this time it's genuine. "See you then, Beesly."

She looks down to her broken fingernail, decides to leave it rough and unfinished for the time being. After all, she has a coffee date to keep.

* * *

Started 10:02 pm 2/23  
Finished 12:01 am 2/24 

Five prompts from fireworkfiasco: A broken nail, a light switch, the post office, coupons, a hot drink


End file.
